


Bound to Serve

by Piscaria



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Merlin Holidays
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-08
Updated: 2012-01-08
Packaged: 2017-10-29 04:19:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/315741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piscaria/pseuds/Piscaria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he accidentally reveals himself to be a Dragonlord, Merlin is drafted into the service of Camelot’s Royal Dragon Force.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bound to Serve

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> Many thanks to Jessica, Ella Bane, and DreamDustMama. for their help and encouragement while beta’ing this story. Thanks also to Ursurculus for the many helpful brainstorming sessions!
> 
> This was written as a pinch-hit for Merlin Holidays 2011 for PoetryofEarth.
> 
> Based on this prompt: _Modern AU where dragons roam free and kingdoms fight using dragons combined with modern warfare._

When the first shadow drifted over the crowd of protesters, Merlin barely noticed. His attention was focused on the woman standing on the make-shift platform in front of the crowd. The afternoon sun caught the auburn highlights in her long, dark hair, and in the light, her golden eyes blazed in anger, even as her voice sailed from the platform and over the heads of the protesters, propelled by the microphone gripped in one perfectly-manicured hand.

“We are not criminals!” she yelled, and Merlin, like the other protesters, cheered and stamped in agreement. “We are lawful citizens of Camelot, and we demand to be treated with dignity and respect!”

All around Merlin, heads were nodding—among them, he was glad to see several sets of brown, blue, or green eyes amongst the ubiquitous gold of the magicians. They’d come, of course, to see Morgana, resplendent in a frock of ruby silk, and draped in a coat that probably cost more than Merlin paid in rent every year.

When the Lady Morgana had disappeared from the public eye last spring, amidst a flurry of tabloid photos and a tersely worded press announcement from the Citadel, only to reappear months later with a Binding tattoo and her eyes shining golden, Merlin, like the rest of the magical community, had shaken his head. As the King’s ward, Morgana could have championed their cause. Instead, like so many other magic users born into positions of privilege, she had hidden her powers, at least until the tabloid scandal hit: photos of Morgana leaning in to embrace known sorceress, Morgause Gorlois, followed by an investigative report proving that the two were sisters. But though it had taken a scandal for Morgana to openly oppose the king and join the campaign for magical rights, Merlin had to admit that she’d done wonders to re-focus national attention on their cause. Several videophones were held above the crowd. With luck, Morgana’s speech would be up on YouTube before the afternoon ended.

“I think this is the biggest turnout we’ve had,” Freya said to him, her voice raised to carry over the crowd.

“I know!” Merlin yelled back at her. “Isn’t it great?” Then he caught sight of a second shadow, larger this time, dark wings falling over the cheering crowd, then drifting away. Merlin’s smile faded.

Shielding his hands with his eyes, he lifted onto his tiptoes, searching the sky above them until he picked out two shapes moving through the clouds. They were small still, but growing steadily larger as they approached. Merlin reached inside himself, finding the wellspring of magic that he’d always been able to draw on. A fraction of it was hampered, raging against the curse bound into the dark ink of the tattoo that spiraled over Merlin’s heart. Most magic users couldn’t access their powers at all once they’d been Bound — Merlin didn’t know why he could, but at moments like this, he was grateful for it. He fed a string of magic into his vision, until he could see the shapes moving through the clouds as easily as he could through a pair of binoculars.

Two dragons, a red and a white. They wore the gleaming emblem of Camelot on their armored breastplates, and their backs were packed with soldiers carrying rifles.

“Dragons!” he shouted, jumping up and waving his hands to draw attention away from Morgana. “The knights are coming! Everybody run!”

Those nearest to him looked up reflexively, and several took up his cry. In moments, the protest descended into chaos, cardboard signs falling to the ground and people jostling in every direction as they tried to run, but found themselves hemmed in by the crowd. One of the dragons swooped lower, its red belly gleaming in the sunlight, and somewhere in the crowd, a woman screamed. Near Merlin, a child began to sob as his mother snatched him up, and his teddy bear fell to the ground. Merlin felt his stomach clench in terror. He’d seen dragons passing overhead, watched their massive shadows overlap his. Yet from the sky, he’d never gotten a true sense of the magnitude of the beasts. In size, the red dragon easily surpassed any of the buses on the street.

“They won’t really attack us, will they?” Freya asked as they tried to push away from the platform. Her pretty face had gone pale with fear, and her fingers trembled where she’d caught hold of Merlin’s wrist so they wouldn’t lose each other in the pandemonium.

“Uther’s done it before,” Merlin said grimly, spotting an opening in the mass of bodies and tugging Freya towards it. His own father had disappeared in a protest much like this, when Merlin was still a baby. His mum still kept his photo on the mantelpiece: Balinor standing golden-eyed and smiling before a crowd of protesters, his dark hair brushing the shoulder seams of his tie-dyed shirt, and his arms raised high above his head, holding a cardboard sign that read, “Magic should be free.”

The red dragon swooped low over their heads, each flap of its enormous wings ruffling their hair. On its back, a knight spoke through a microphone.

“This is an illegal gathering! Clear the square, by order of the king.”

The crowd was thinning out, those along the fringes scattering as best they could. But those in the middle could hardly move, and some seemed set on not moving at all. To Merlin’s left, a group of students had taken hands, standing in a defiant circle. Their faces were grim with fear as they looked up at the dragons, but determined nonetheless.

On the white dragon’s back, the knights were having a hurried conference. One of them shouted an order. The dragon circled overhead, then dived straight toward the group of students.

“Oh God,” Freya whispered. “It’s going to —”

The dragon drew in a deep breath, and Merlin saw the blue light of flame flaring up in its throat.

Before he realized what he was doing, Merlin was leaping forward, crying out, “No! Don’t!” At least, that’s what he meant to cry. But the words that rolled out of him pulsed like thunder in a language that he’d never heard, but which, in the dragon’s presence, suddenly seemed as instinctive as breathing.

Merlin threw back his head and roared, “ _Dracan! Nán dyd élc áciere miss! Eftsídas eom ála cræt! Géate stær ábére gárrés. Géate cyre. Mé tácen átende diegollice_!”

Freya was staring at him, her gold eyes wide with shock. Around him, others had turned, startled by the sound of his voice. And the dragon . . . the dragon turned his head at the last moment, and the flames shot towards one of the glass display windows of a nearby storefront. The window blistered and crackled under the heat, but nobody had been hurt. The white dragon drifted down, ignoring the crowd of scattering protesters, and settled on the concrete before Merlin, bowing its head low. A moment later, the red one followed suit.

On the platforms strapped to the dragons’ immense backs, the knights gaped at Merlin. Then, as one, they rose, unbuckling their harness belts and swinging down from canvas harness straps. Merlin backed away as they started toward him.

“You there!” the leader of the group shouted. “Dragonlord! I demand that you surrender, by decree of the laws of Camelot!”

Merlin stared at him, then dumbfounded, at the dragons still groveling before him. “I’m not a —” he started. A sudden sting in his side stopped the words, and he stared down to see the rubber tip of a dart protruding from his blue jumper. Merlin staggered and fell.

* * *

Merlin woke to a roar that pounded through his aching head, making him want to huddle in on himself, to muffle his ears and possibly be sick. Only when he tried to lift his hands to block the sound did he realize they were bound behind his back. Sensation flooded back to him, and he groaned at the stiff muscles in his arms, the raw sores on his wrists where the handcuffs cut into them, the press of vinyl against his cheek, and the cottony dryness of his mouth. Inside, his magic shifted numb and sluggish. Merlin knew that in a few minutes it would start prickling at him, like the pins and needles sensation of a foot that’s fallen asleep.

Opening his eyes, he found himself staring at the inside of a helicopter, filled with panels and dangerous-looking machines. Through his peripheral vision, he saw the muscular thigh of a man sitting on the vinyl bench beside him. Two other men sat in the bucket seats up front. All three wore the black and red uniforms of the Knights of Camelot.

All at once, Merlin remembered the protest.

“He’s coming to!” one of the knights said.

Merlin tried to catch his balance, to sit up. The world spun sickeningly around him, and he slumped back down, breathing heavily.

“Don’t move,” the knight said, sounding almost sympathetic. He was handsome, Merlin noted dully, with an aquiline nose and a sweep of dark hair. “We gave you a sedative. I hear it’s hell on magic users.”

Merlin slumped back against the seat, wanting to cry. The helicopter’s roar still sounded in his ears. For a moment, he wondered why they’d bothered with a helicopter at all, when they had dragons at their disposal. Then he remembered the way he’d called the dragons to stop, and supposed that the knights wanted to take no chances. What had they called him? Dragonlord?

“There’s been a mistake,” he tried to say, but his tongue felt thick and heavy in his mouth.

For a second, he thought of trying magic, but even if he could manage a spell while drugged, it might not do any good. He could knock out the knights, maybe, but he’d still be stranded in a helicopter, high in the air. Merlin had never been able to bend technology to his will. His gift was for organic things, for water, for earth, for fire, for air. He hadn’t the faintest idea how to land a helicopter, magically or otherwise, and drugged, he didn’t trust himself even to break a fall. He tried to think, to come up with a plan, but his thoughts felt as strange and distant as his magic. Finally, he let his head loll back against the vinyl bench, tired even of thinking. Maybe it was better not to do anything. They might go easier on him if he cooperated.

Not that it had worked for his father.

When the helicopter landed with a bump in the citadel’s courtyard, Merlin only hugged himself more tightly, resting his head on the knees he’d managed to pull up to his chest. The knight sitting beside him reached for his elbow and hauled him to his feet, though not as roughly as he might have.

“We’re here, Warlock.”

Weak and dizzy from the sedative, Merlin let himself be manhandled down the helicopter stairs and across the courtyard into the citadel, the dark-haired knight still gripping his elbow, the other two taking positions before and behind him. Once inside, the trio of knights paused before an elevator door set into the stone wall. They herded Merlin inside, and the knight at the front of the group punched one of the buttons.

“D3” flashed the electronic panel. And then, “Authorization Required.”

The knight lifted the dragon-emblazoned badge hanging from a lanyard around his neck and swiped it through the scanner set in the elevator wall. As the elevator doors began to close, Merlin thought about forcing them open and breaking free. But he was still weak from the sedative, and he didn’t know where to go. The citadel was crawling with guards. Besides, the knights were giving him shifty-eyed looks, their hands lingering over the guns at their hips. Resigned, Merlin allowed the elevator to carry them into the depths of the citadel.

From the stories he’d heard, Merlin half expected Uther Pendragon’s dungeon to be a dank, dark pit, heaped high with dirty straw and crawling with fleas and rats. But the elevator doors slid open to reveal a bright cell gleaming with mirrored walls. In their surface, Merlin caught sight of his own face, pale beneath the florid bruise covering one cheek, his mouth and chin crusted with blood from a split lip, eyes blazing golden.

The dark-haired knight who’d spoken to Merlin on the helicopter tapped the golden Pendragon emblem pinned to his chest, and his communicator badge chirped to life. “We have the Dragonlord in custody, Sire,” he said.

“Excellent work, Sir Gwaine,” a new voice spoke through it. “I’ll be there shortly.”

The knights pricked to attention as footsteps sounded in the hallway outside, and the hands on Merlin’s arms and shoulders tightened, pushing him down to his knees. Still dizzy from the sedative, and with his hands bound behind his back, he fell hard, kneecaps crashing painfully against the stone floor. The door slid open, and Merlin caught a glimpse of expensive leather boots, studded with golden buckles, a heavy, leather coat swinging around the wearer’s ankles. The man stepped forward, then leaned over Merlin, peering into his face.

Merlin caught a glimpse of blue eyes, startlingly bright. He blinked, fighting vertigo. It seemed the world yawned open around him. For a second, Merlin glimpsed the same face, but panicked, mouth stretched in horror.

 _“No!” he was screaming, lunging forward. His hand reached for Merlin, but too late. Merlin felt his limbs growing stiff and heavy as he sank down, down into the stone and the cradling arms of the earth._

The sword fell to the grass between them, unheeded.

Merlin’s world gave way to solid rock, while the man above him roared in frustration.

Merlin blinked, shaking his head to clear it, and found himself staring up into the face of Prince Arthur Pendragon. Like the rest of Camelot, Merlin had watched Arthur grow from a tanned and muscular youth with the boyish good looks who had graced every magazine cover in Albion, to the somber and capable commander of the Royal Dragon Force. Merlin recognized his face from hundreds of news clips and interviews, the mouth pinched and sullen, the blue eyes dark with fatigue since Morgana’s disinheritance. What Merlin wasn’t prepared for, though, was the sudden flash of recognition that flickered across Arthur’s weary expression, slamming through Merlin’s heart like a bolt of lightning as his sluggish magic quickened. Merlin felt himself rock back from the force, and wondered, for a moment, if Arthur, too, might sense it. His eyes were so wide.

“Merlin?” Arthur asked, a near plaintive note in his voice. Then he frowned and shook his head, his gaze hardening. “Merlin Emrys?” he asked, more firmly.

Merlin glared up at him. “I haven’t done anything wrong!”

“I didn’t say you had.” Arthur caught Gwaine’s eye, and jerked his chin towards Merlin’s handcuffs. “Release him.”

“Your majesty,” one of the other knights broke in. “I’m not sure —”

“Release him,” Arthur repeated. “I’ll take full responsibility.

Merlin hissed out a breath of relief as the handcuffs were snapped off. Rubbing his sore wrist, he staggered to his feet, eyeing Arthur warily. Part of him wondered if he was in for a game of good cop, bad cop. But Arthur was looking at him strangely. As Merlin watched, an expression of uncertainty flickered over his face, before it was replaced by the assured air that Merlin recognized from the news.

“You’re a warlock,” Arthur said. He didn’t sound accusing, exactly, but Merlin bristled all the same.

“I’m registered and Bound!”

“I know,” Arthur said. “I pulled your file. Interestingly enough though, nowhere did it mention that you were also a Dragonlord.”

“That’s because I’m not one!”

Arthur gazed at him steadily.

Merlin sputtered. “Look, I don’t know what happened in the square this afternoon. I’ve never done anything like that before.”

Arthur shrugged, glancing down at the file in his hand. “It says here that you do data entry. I’m sure you don’t interact with many dragons in your work.”

“Whatever happened at the protest this afternoon, it was a fluke! This is all a mistake!” Merlin protested. “I didn’t lie, I swear it! You can’t just arrest me --”

“Oh, I can,” Arthur assured him. “Failing to report a magical talent is a crime, Merlin. Surely you know that.” Arthur lifted a hand to forestall his argument. “But you can relax,” he added. “This isn’t an arrest.”

Merlin looked pointedly at the handcuffs, still dangling from Gwaine’s hand. Arthur shrugged, looking momentarily uncomfortable.

“You seized control of two military dragons,” he said. “With their Dragonlords aboard. You can’t blame us for taking every precaution. Nonetheless,” he said, straightening, “you should feel grateful that you are not in trouble with the law.” He didn’t add “ _yet_ ,” but Merlin could hear it in his voice.

“What do you want?” Merlin asked with a sinking heart.

Arthur stepped forward, lifting his chin. “Merlin Emrys,” he said. “I am calling you into the king’s service, under section six of the magical enforcement code.”

Merlin gaped him. “You have got to be joking. I’m not going to fight for you!”

“Why not?” Arthur said. “This is your kingdom, after all. We are at war with Mercia, and war requires us to all make sacrifices. Any law abiding citizen would jump at the chance to serve the king.”

“My kingdom?” Merlin said. “If this were _my_ kingdom, I wouldn’t have been dragged in and bound when I was ten years old! I could live wherever I wanted, and I could get a decent job because nobody would care if they had a warlock in their office! If this were my kingdom, my father would still be alive! Why should I serve a king who barely tolerates my kind?”

Arthur’s eyes had widened during Merlin’s tirade, but as Merlin watched, he composed himself once more. “The king has taken the necessary steps to protect the kingdom from magical terrorism,” he said stiffly. “It’s not your place to question his decisions. As I said, we must all make sacrifices during war.”

“I don’t see you making any sacrifices,” Merlin muttered. He knew without a doubt that Arthur Pendragon had never wondered whether he should wear shades on a rainy day to keep from being harassed on the tube. Arthur, as a child, never had a stranger spit in his face and snarl, “ _Fucking warlocks! They should all be drowned at birth_.” Certainly, Arthur would never have had to endure such abuse in silence, with his mother’s hand around his shoulder and her voice a panicked whisper in his ear, begging, “ _Don’t, Merlin!_ ” when he reached for his magic.

Arthur narrowed his eyes. “I risk my life every day for this kingdom and its people,” he snapped. “Even the ones who don’t appreciate it. So does every man and woman in the army. It is an honour to fly with the dragons. It’s an honour to serve Camelot.”

"An honour," Merlin snorted. "The dragons barely tolerate you lot. If they did, you wouldn't need Dragonlords.”

"The dragons understand that it's safer for them to be accommodating," Arthur countered. "These are hardly the middle ages. If we rise up against the dragons, it won't be with swords. They're outgunned and they know it. This is the most humane option."

"Humane," Merlin sniffed. "Like butchering is ever humane. If I hadn’t stopped them, your knights would have roasted that entire crowd of protesters."

“We were only going to fire above their heads!” Gwaine protested. Arthur and Merlin both glared at him.

“Those under my command have worked hard to be in their positions,” Arthur said, voice dangerously low. “Some men and women will spend their entire lives working for the RDF without once getting a chance to go dragonback. Believe me, I would not be offering this opportunity to _you_ if there weren’t the direst need.”

“This isn’t an offer,” Merlin scoffed. “If it were an offer, I could refuse.”

“I’m giving you a chance to save hundreds of lives!”

“By killing others!” Merlin snapped. “I won’t do it. I’d rather die.”

Arthur sighed. “I can see I’m not going to convince you."

“That’s right,” Merlin said, crossing his arms.

Arthur nodded to one of the knights. “Bring in the other prisoner.”

The knight left, only to return moments later, leading two of the citadel guards behind them. They held a man between them. The prisoner’s golden eyes betrayed him for a warlock, as did the black spiraling tip of a Binding tattoo just peeking above the low collar of his v-necked t-shirt. Something about him seemed vaguely familiar to Merlin, and he frowned, wondering if they’d met. Yet the prisoner was clearly a soldier. His greying dark hair was cropped short, in the military style, and he wore black utility trousers and combat boots, a Pendragon-red t-shirt, and a heavy leather draciator’s jacket, emblazoned with the golden badge of the RDF. A Dragonlord, then.

Merlin’s stomach clenched, and he scowled, certain now that he’d never met this man. He’d have remembered a Dragonlord. It was bad enough that magic users were forced into designated housing and bound with the spiral tattoos that kept their magic constantly fighting off the curse formulated into the ink. But for the Dragonlords to help Uther in his cause, even under duress . . .

Upon seeing Arthur, the Dragonlord straightened in the guards’ grip. “What is the meaning of this, Sire? I’m a loyal member of the king’s army, I demand to know why I’ve been taken into custody!” The Dragonlord scowled at Arthur, swinging his gaze around the prison cell in disgust. But when he caught sight of Merlin, an inexplicable change came over him. The rage drained from his face, leaving behind it a look of sorrow and regret. “No,” he groaned, his shoulders sagging. “Not him.”

“My father wants a decision by sunset,” Arthur said. “You have an hour to convince him, Balinor.”

Merlin’s head snapped up at the name. Arthur and the knights left, the door sealing shut behind them, but Merlin barely noticed. He stared up at the man standing across from him.

“No,” Merlin said, stepping backwards, and nearly stumbling against the cot. “You can’t be! He’s dead!”

Balinor sighed, running a hand through his close-cropped hair. “I’m sorry, son,” he said.

* * *

Merlin shook his head, his stomach a knot of emotions he couldn’t begin to pick through. “You’re sorry?” he repeated, his voice tight. “We thought you were dead! And you’re sorry?”

“I had to let you think that!” Balinor leaned forward, reaching for Merlin’s shoulder. A pained expression crossed his face when Merlin shrugged him off. “I know I haven’t been much of a father to you,” he started.

Merlin interrupted him. "I'm 29! Mum tells stories of how you let the Pendragons catch you to keep us safe. She keeps the letter you wrote her in a box under her bed. I still catch her looking at it sometimes. She talks about you like you're a hero! And all this time . . ." He swallowed, feeling queasy.

Furiously, he wiped at his eyes. He’d always hated how quickly he teared up. “You’re a Dragonlord.”

Balinor sighed heavily. “It’s genetic, Merlin. I can’t help being a Dragonlord any more than I can help my blood type.” He hesitated a moment, looking sad. “Neither can you.”

Merlin glared at him. “I’m not a Dragonlord.” Balinor opened his mouth to protest, but Merlin shook his head. “I might have the gene,” he allowed. "But I'm not a killer. I'd rather die than sell myself out." He didn’t bother to add, “like you did,” but he could tell from Balinor’s flinch that he felt the unspoken jab. They glared at each other for a moment, gold eyes locked with gold.

Then Balinor sighed, a rueful expression crossing his face. “I guess I deserve that,” he said. “But please, Merlin. Don’t be stubborn. You don’t know the methods they will use to force you to cooperate now that they have you.”

Merlin pressed his lips together, glaring at his own expression reflected in the mirrored wall.

“It’s not such a bad life,” Balinor pressed on. “King Uther needs his Dragonlords. He knows that. You won’t have freedom, but you’ll have some measure of respect. And it’s magic, of a sort they can’t Bind.”

Merlin wanted to protest that he could already use his magic, but he checked himself just in time. Balinor might be his father, but he was a stranger all the same. And there was no way to know who was watching their exchange through the mirror.

Instead, Merlin asked, “Is that why you did it? For respect??”

Balinor sighed. “I did it to protect you. When the guards took me, Hunith had just realized she was pregnant. They’d have come after her if I refused. And once they learned I had a child . . .” Balinor trailed off, a pained expression on his face. “As long as Uther had me, I hoped the two of you might be safe.”

“You could have contacted us,” Merlin said, remembering how his mother took down Balinor’s photo every Sunday and dusted it.

“Look, Merlin, it wasn't easy,” Balinor said. “Uther needs Dragonlords, but he doesn’t trust us. The knights monitor my phone calls. I know they follow me when I leave the citadel. I didn’t dare get in touch with your mother. I would have led them straight to you!”

Merlin snorted, resting his head back against the cold surface of the mirror. He wondered who was watching them on the other side, and almost started to look with magic, but his self-preservation instincts stopped the half-thought spell before he’d managed to release it.

“Well, now they have me,” he said. “But I won’t do it. I don’t care if they kill me.”

“Please!” Balinor said, desperation touching his voice. “I just met you, son! I don’t want to see you tortured! And they will, Merlin. They will.” His head lifted and his eyes lost focus for a moment, as though he were looking inside, at something only he could see. “They’re coming,” he breathed, his eyes darting frantically to Merlin. “Please, son. Don’t make this hard on yourself!”

The widest of the room’s mirrored walls slid open with a hiss.

Arthur stepped inside, but this time, he wasn’t alone. King Uther was shorter than he looked on television, but he wore the same hard, fierce expression that Merlin recognized from countless television programs.

“This is your son, then?” Uther asked, staring at Merlin as if he were a piece of used tissue.

Balinor looked from Merlin to Uther, a helpless expression on his face. “Yes,” he said. “This is Merlin.”

Uther turned his steely gaze on Balinor. “According to my intelligence reports, he’s twenty-nine years old. You’ve been lying to me for nearly three decades, Balinor.”

“You had me!” Balinor protested. “I wasn’t going to give you my son, as well!”

“Nevertheless,” Uther said, “we have him. And you will pay for your omission.” He crossed his arms and looked hard at Merlin. “I trust that Balinor has explained the situation. We have precious few Dragonlords. By joining our cause, you will do your country a tremendous service.”

“I’d sooner die,” Merlin said.

"Very well,” Uther said, sounding unconcerned. He jerked his chin towards Balinor, and the trio of knights behind him started at once towards the Dragonlord. “Kill him."

“Father!” Arthur protested. “Balinor has served us for years!”

“He has withheld information that would help the war effort,” Uther said. “And for that, he must be punished.”

“It’s natural for a man to want to protect his son!” Arthur said.

At the same time, Merlin cried, "You can't!"

“I can and I will,” Uther said. “Unless you are willing to cooperate.”

Merlin hesitated, torn. The knights had taken hold of Balinor. One pulled the gun from his holster, pointing it at Balinor’s head.

Merlin hung his head, resigned. “I’ll do it,” he said. “Just don’t hurt him.”

The king smiled coldly. “Excellent,” he said. “I’d hoped you might listen to reason.”

* * *

The guards deposited Merlin into the hands of a smiling lieutenant named Smith.

“But you can call me Gwen,” she said, as she led him away from the dungeon. Gwen didn’t flinch away from his golden-eyed gaze, and for that, Merlin could almost forgive her the Pendragon crest on her RDC uniform, and the revolver strapped around her hips.

She led him to his room in the citadel—a small, rectangular cell, holding only a twin bed, a writing desk, and a battered wardrobe, with a sink in one corner and a tiny mirror hanging over it, badly in need of polishing. Merlin couldn’t help but think about the spacious loft he shared with Freya, the dog-eared paperbacks spilling off the bookshelf, the dirty dishes in the sink, his tie still slung over the back of the sofa, where he tossed it upon coming home from work. Merlin imagined Freya telling his mother that he was missing. He could picture the two of them weeping on Hunith’s sofa, covered by the knotty blanket she crocheted when Merlin was a boy. He remembered holding the yarn for her, watching her swift fingers twine it around the needle.

At his expression, Gwen smiled gently. “It’s small, I know. But it will be cozy enough once you’re moved in. The toilet’s across the hall and to the left,” she added. “We all share it. Everyone in the flight crew, I mean.”

“I’ll be flying with you then?” Merlin asked.

Gwen nodded. “You’ll be on Prince Arthur’s crew,” she said. “He likes to monitor all the new recruits himself. Well, not that you’re a recruit, exactly.” She blushed. “It’s just that, you’re new, and . . .”

“He wants to keep an eye on me,” Merlin finished dully.

“It’s not so bad, really,” Gwen said. “I mean, I know you don’t want to be here, but —”

“I have a life!” Merlin protested. Gwen took a step back at his outburst. Merlin felt a stab of guilt for shouting at the first person who’d been decent to him since the knights captured him, but couldn’t stop talking. His mum always said he let his mouth run away from him. “I’m supposed to be at work tomorrow, Gwen! I have a job! And a roommate! I have a mother! My God, she’s going to be worried sick about me!”

Gwen listened to it all quietly, her eyes calm and sad. When Merlin finished, she said, “I’m sorry that you’ve had to go through that. I don’t think anyone should be forced to go up on the dragons.”

Merlin swallowed thickly. “Do you have a phone?” he asked. “It’s just . . . they took mine, and I need to get a hold of people. Let them know what happened.”

Gwen smiled kindly, and patted Merlin’s arm. “I’ll see what I can do,” she said.

* * *

In the citadel, Merlin’s life fell into a new routine. He woke before dawn in the morning and ate in the mess hall. Aside from Gwen, the soldiers ignored him, and he them. He tried to avoid the other Dragonlords, especially Balinor. Merlin still couldn’t look at his father without his gut clenching in anger. It was nearly as bad as the frustration that washed over him when he called his mother. (True to her word, Gwen managed to arrange a phone call on Merlin’s second day in the compound)

Hunith had sounded so sad as Merlin explained his situation, that he almost found himself feeling guilty for his own imprisonment. She grew quiet as he told her about Balinor, though Merlin could hear her sniffling on the other end. He imagined her standing in her kitchen with the phone clutched to her ear and tears rolling down her cheeks. A lump formed in Merlin’s throat as he spoke. When he cut the call short, he wasn’t sure if it was for her benefit or his own. He didn’t call again. Instead, he fell into a solitary life in the citadel.

After breakfast every day, Merlin went to the training field to meet Gwen, who taught him how to navigate a dragon harness. Merlin had seen movies of dragon fighting, but it was a different thing entirely to strap the heavy canvas belt around his waist and feel the heavy slap of steel rings in their reinforced straps against his legs. Gwen showed him how to fasten his carabiner to one of the many similar rings looping the heavy armor that hugged the dragon’s massive shoulders and back.

They practiced with a red dragon named Leáspel. Her long neck twisting back, she watched impassively as Merlin scrambled up to the riding platform on her back, which was a small, steel box, rather like an overlarge anchovy tin, with a clear, sloping roof of reinforced plexiglass to keep out the wind and rain. Inside were five chairs. The two in front were bracketed by odd metal contraptions, rather like tripods, and Merlin realized with horror that they were meant to hold rifles steady.

When Gwen tried to teach him how to shoot, though, Merlin balked.

“Not that,” he told her firmly.

She frowned, confused. “But Prince Arthur said that you’d agreed to help.”

“I’ll ride with you,” Merlin said. “And I’ll command the dragon. But I won’t kill anybody.”

* * *

Even as miserable and tense as he was, Merlin couldn’t entirely suppress the guilty thrill of excitement the first time they went aloft.

Leáspel’s massive wings lifted, testing the air. The dragon crouched low, then leaped skyward, propelling them higher and higher with every wing beat. Merlin clung to the canvas straps of his harness, peering down over the dragon’s shoulder at the citadel, which now seemed only a child’s toy castle. He felt grateful for the plexiglass that shielded him from most of the wind.

Sitting across from him, Gwen caught his expression and smiled. “I never get used to it,” she confessed. “It’s like something out of a fairy tale.”

“It’s brilliant!” Merlin agreed, then felt immediately guilty for thinking so. His smile fading, he leaned back in his seat, letting Leáspel’s broad wings propel them further and further away from the citadel, into the fields surrounding the city. He would have let the dragon fly forever, but after a few minutes, Gwen touched his arm.

“There are some commands you’ll have to learn,” she said. “Manouvres. Directions. That sort of thing.

The dragons already know them. You just have to give the order.” She reached into her jacket pocket, and pulled out a stack of laminated cards. Shuffling through them, she handed one to Merlin. “Here. Try this one.”

“ _Abregda_ ,” he read. At his voice, Leáspel flew upward immediately, shooting them higher into the air. He gasped, clinging to the harness, and Gwen giggled at his expression.

“That’s great!” she said. “Do you feel up for a dive?”

Merlin looked at her, then at the ground, which now looked very far away. Swallowing, he said. “All right. Let’s try it.”

Gwen beamed, and handed him another card.

* * *

As Gwen and Merlin were preparing to go aloft one morning, a week after Merlin had started his training, they spied a small group walking towards the training field. As they neared, Merlin recognized Balinor, Arthur, and one of the ever-present knights who followed the prince as a bodyguard. Sir Leon, Merlin thought, recognizing his hair.

“The prince must want to check your progress,” Gwen said, sounding worried. She dismounted at once, giving Arthur a sharp salute. Merlin made his way down more slowly. Even after a week of practice, he couldn’t scramble up and down the harness straps as quickly as Gwen could.

Balinor smiled at him, something strained in his expression. Merlin didn’t return it. He wasn’t sure what to feel when he looked at his father. Disappointment rang hollow as a bell. Balinor’s smile faded, and he swallowed. Leaning back against Leáspel, Merlin crossed his arms, ignoring his father and giving Arthur a cold stare. Again, his magic tried to bubble up in him at the sight of Arthur. Merlin clamped it down firmly.

Arthur returned the stare in equal measure. “I think I’ll go aloft with you today,” he said. “Balinor, watch from the ground. Be ready to call Leáspel down if the need arises.”

“Yes, Sire,” Balinor said, sounding deeply unhappy.

Leon frowned. “I’ll accompany you, Sire.”

Arthur waved him off. “No,” he said. “Merlin is a pacifist. He’s not going to harm me. Are you, Merlin?”

 _I might make an exception for you,_ Merlin thought, glaring at Arthur. But aloud, he only said, “No.”

“No, what?” Arthur asked, cupping his hand over his ear as if he hadn’t heard properly.

Merlin gritted his teeth. “No, _Sire._ ”

“Much better.”

Arthur swung into the harness with practiced ease, strapping himself into one of the two front seats. Warily, Merlin clambered up after him, wishing that he weren’t so clumsy. Arthur and Gwen made the process look easy.

Arthur gave Merlin a sharp smile. “All right, then, Merlin. Show me what you’ve got.”

Merlin considered blowing the exercise. Perhaps if he looked incompetent, Arthur would give him up as a lost cause. But then Merlin remembered Gwen’s nervous face, and he couldn’t make himself go through with that plan. As Merlin’s trainer, it would reflect on her if he did badly, and the last thing he wanted to do was to get Gwen in trouble. She was the only person in the entire citadel who’d treated him decently. So with a sigh, Merlin ordered the dragon aloft, and launched into the routine drill Gwen had taught him, guiding Leáspel through a precise series of shifts in altitude and position that were, Gwen had explained, designed to help a dragon fit into part of a flying formation.

Through it all, Arthur leaned back in his chair, a bored expression on his face. He sat close enough that Merlin could smell his cologne, a scent that reminded Merlin of sun-warmed leather and freshly-mown grass, of salty ocean breezes, and sweet rum, and kisses stolen under a pier. Merlin glared at Arthur’s handsome profile, thinking how deeply unfair it was that anyone with the name of Pendragon should wear a smell that coiled so comfortably in Merlin’s belly. If Arthur noticed the glare, he gave no sign. Leaning back in his seat, he flipped open his mobile phone, his thumbs dancing over the keyboard.

Merlin’s eyes narrowed. Gripping the edge of his armrests, he commanded Leáspel into a long, corkscrewing dive. Arthur fell forward sharply, landing hard against his harness straps. The phone went skittering into the floor of the riding platform.

“What the hell?” Arthur barked, glaring at Merlin.

Merlin tried to look innocent. “You looked bored,” he said. “I thought I’d show you something interesting.”

Arthur settled himself back into his seat, fuming. “I’ve been riding dragonback since I was twelve years old,” he snapped. “Believe me, Merlin, _nothing_ you do is going to interest me.”

“You think so?” Merlin asked, practically burning with indignation. If his mum were there, she’d tell him to calm down. If Gwen were there, she’d try to distract him. But the only other person on the platform was Arthur, and Arthur leaned forward, spreading his hands wide.

“Try me,” he said.

Merlin smiled grimly and unfastened his harness belt. “All right,” he said. “As you command. Sire.”

Arthur watched warily as Merlin stood, unsteadily making his way across Leáspel’s back. He crouched near the corner of the riding platform, fastening his carabiner to one of the straps along the harness. But only when he reached for the button that Gwen had showed him did Arthur speak.

“Merlin! What do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m just trying to keep your interest,” Merlin said, and pressed the button that retracted the plexiglass shield.

It folded away as efficiently as a convertible top, sliding into the narrow crack inside the thick, steel walls of the riding platform. No sooner had the shield opened then the wind roared in. Merlin’s eyes watered. He remembered seeing sepia-toned photos of draciators wearing thick goggles, and wished he had some, as well as one of their thick, wool scarves. The wind cut through even the heavy leather of his jacket, chilling him to the bone.

“Merlin!” Arthur yelled, his bright hair swept out of its neat style. “This is ridiculous! Put that back at once!”

Leáspel, too, had twisted her head backwards to stare at him, her liquid blue eyes wide with surprise.

Gripping his carabiner strap tightly, Merlin waved at her, then gave Arthur a cheeky grin.

“You’re not bored now, are you?”

He hoped that the wind and the shouting had masked the nervousness in his voice. He and Gwen had practiced this next step, but only on the ground. He eyed the space between him and his seat. With the plexiglass shield in place, it had taken only a few steps to reach the edge of the platform. But with the shield down and the wind soaring past him, Merlin was uncomfortably reminded of how high they were. If he lost his grip while his carabiner was unfastened, the forward momentum of the flight alone would be enough to sweep him off Leáspel’s back.

For a half second, Merlin considered following Arthur’s command and setting the shield back in place. But Arthur was glaring at him defiantly, clearly waiting for him to capitulate. Merlin was not going to lose a game of chicken with Arthur Pendragon.

Lunging forward, Merlin grasped the next d-ring on the heavy strap circling Leáspel’s shoulders with his left hand. This was going to be the hard part. Holding tightly to the d-ring, he fumbled behind him with his right hand, catching hold of the carabiner and snapping it free. He took a deep breath, counted to three, and then swung forward with his right hand, bringing the carabiner strap with him. After two clumsy attempts, he finally managed to fasten the carabiner onto the same d-ring his left hand was gripping. Shaking with adrenaline, he paused for a moment, finally daring to loosen his death-grip on the ring. His hand ached from it.

Arthur shook his head, eyes narrowed. “One might almost think you’re trying to get yourself killed,” he shouted over the wind, as Merlin surveyed the remaining space between them. Only one more round to go.

“Hardly!” Merlin snapped, and lunged forward again, gripping the next ring. The carabiner snapped free on the first try this time. At the same moment, however, Leáspel dropped sharply to avoid a sudden air current. Merlin lost his grip, and went sliding forward, his fingers scrabbling for purchase against the steel floor of the platform. He could see the platform walls approaching in front of him. Without the shield, the wall was only inches high. Unless he could catch the edge somehow, Merlin would slide right over it, plummeting off Leáspel’s back.

 _I’m going to die,_ he thought in a moment of startling clarity. _Or else I’m going to use magic, and then the king will kill me._

But even as he reached inside for his power--better to delay death, surely--a strong hand knotted in the waistband of his trousers, tugging him back. Twisting to look behind him, Merlin saw that Arthur had released his harness straps of his seat and stood, straining forward at the end of his own carabiner strap, safely hooked to the chair behind him. One hand gripping the edge of his seat for balance, the other was holding fast to Merlin.

Merlin stared up at him, panicked. Any second now, Arthur’s grip would fail, and he would fall again. But Arthur’s grip only tightened in the fabric. Their eyes met, and Merlin drew in a breath at the change that had come over Arthur’s face. This was no world-weary wing commander. Arthur’s eyes shone with determination. His face held no sign of fear or hesitation. He looked as though his whole being were invested in saving Merlin, as if he’d plummet to the ground himself before he’d let go. This, Merlin realized, was why people followed Arthur Pendragon into battle. Men would gladly die in the face of such strong composure.

“Take my arm!” Arthur shouted, in a voice that held no room for argument.

Trembling, Merlin twisted in Arthur’s grip, lunging forward until he had a hold of Arthur’s wrist. Steadying his feet, Arthur released the edge of the seat, relying solely on his carabiner strap for safety. Merlin bit his lip, but Arthur was only reaching forward, catching Merlin’s own wrist in a fireman’s grip. His other hand shifted from Merlin’s waistband to his bicep. Merlin scrabbled to catch hold of Arthur’s forearm with his free hand.

“Hold on,” Arthur yelled--quite unnecessarily, since Merlin had no intention whatsoever of letting go. He clung to Arthur with all his strength as the prince hauled him up with brute strength, tugging hard enough that they both sprawled backwards, Arthur landing in his seat, and Merlin landing hard on Arthur, knocking the wind out of both of them.

For a moment, they could only gasp for breath, Merlin clinging to Arthur desperately, and Arthur holding tight to the seat. Arthur recovered first. Reaching forward, he caught the edge of Merlin’s carabiner strap, latching it onto his own.

“Tell Leáspel to land,” he growled into Merlin’s ear.

Trembling, Merlin obeyed. It was only as they neared the ground and Arthur touched the back of his wrist that he realized he was still clinging tightly to Arthur’s arm, his face buried in Arthur’s shoulder, breathing in the comforting scent of him.

* * *

“Merlin, are you all right?” Balinor asked as they reached the ground.

At the same time, Gwen cried, “What happened?”

Leon strode forward, shaking Merlin hard. “You idiot!” he yelled. “How dare you take such a risk with the prince onboard!”

Arthur held up a hand, quieting all of them. “Enough,” he said. “Merlin has learned his lesson. Haven’t you, Merlin?”

Merlin swallowed and nodded, too shaken even to be offended by Arthur’s patronizing tone.

Arthur surveyed him quietly, an unreadable expression in his face. “That was reckless,” he said. “And stupid. But very brave.” Turning to Balinor, he said, “I think he’s ready to meet Kilgharrah tomorrow.”

“Kilgharrah?” Merlin asked.

Balinor nodded. “The dragon you’ll be working with.”

“I thought I’d be working with Leáspel,” Merlin said, confused.

Balinor stepped forward, patting the red dragon’s hide affectionately. “Leáspel usually works with me,” he said. “All of the dragons have favorites. Kilgharrah’s last handler died five years ago, but we haven’t been able to get him to cooperate with anyone else.”

“Then why do you think he’ll work with me?”

Balinor smiled, and Merlin had to look away from the pride in his father’s face. “Merlin, you commanded two dragons while their Dragonlords were still aboard. I don’t think Kilgharrah will give you anything to worry about.”

* * *

Camelot had five dragons. They slept in a row of wide, grey warehouses, each attended by a bevy of feeders, groomers, and ground workers, in addition to the teams that actually went aloft with them. Balinor led Merlin to the largest of the warehouses, on the far end of the training grounds. He pushed a button beside the large garage door, and a speaker panel beeped in recognition.

“Kilgharrah,” Balinor started, but a deep, resonant voice interrupted him.

“Yes. I’ve been waiting. Let me speak to the young warlock. Alone.”

Balinor looked at Merlin apologetically. “He is sometimes temperamental. Would you like me to come in with you? He can’t really keep me out.”

Merlin squared his shoulders. He wasn’t eager to speak with the dragon, but neither did he particularly want to spend time with this man, who wore his father’s face and nothing of his father’s ideology.

“No,” he said. “I’ll meet him.”

Merlin stepped into pitch blackness. Instinctively, he lifted a hand, letting light flare on his palm and illuminate the warehouse. As he did so, a green head lifted on a serpentine neck, and Merlin found himself face to face with Kilgharrah.

After a week in the citadel, Merlin thought he’d grown used to the immense size of the dragons. But Kilgharrah put them all to shame. His massive green body filled the warehouse, and his head was the size of a small automobile. When he spoke, his deep, resonant voice echoed off the cement walls.

“Young Merlin,” Kilgharrah said. “At last you have returned.”

“I’ve never been here before,” Merlin said, trying not to be unnerved by the dragon’s fangs. The ones in front were nearly as long as Merlin’s legs.

“I have been waiting for you for over a thousand years,” Kilgharrah said, peering quizzically down at Merlin. “You have come to bring about the next golden age with the Pendragon heir.”

Merlin snorted. “If the Pendragons are supposed to bring about a new age, I want no part in it,” he said. Yet at the same time, he remembered Arthur’s face as he’d pulled him to safety, and part of him could almost believe the dragon’s words.

Kilgharrah laughed. “You are still just as fiery as ever. Arthur Pendragon will reunite Albion. His reign will bring a new era of peace, when magic and dragons can be free once more.”

“No,” Merlin said. “I’m pretty sure you’re thinking of a different Arthur.”

“There is only one Arthur Pendragon,” Kilgharrah said. “Just as there is only one Emrys. Together, you will bring about a new Albion.”

“How? I’m in no position to do anything!”

“Freedom,” the dragon intoned, “is just another word for nothing left to lose.”

Merlin stared at him. “You did not just say that.”

“The grounds crew listens to classic rock,” Kilgharrah said. “I’m quite fond of Janis Joplin.”

Merlin smiled despite himself, even as he shook his head. “Look,” he said. “I’m sorry. But I don’t want a destiny. I have a life! I just want to go home.”

“Merlin,” said Kilgharrah, “you were never meant for an ordinary life. There is a bond that connects each dragon to a dragonlord. A bond made of magic and spells, of fire and of air. We are bound together, you and I. We are kin. As long as that bond exists, you will be drawn to my kind, and we to you.”

Merlin straightened, seizing onto the dragon’s words. “As long as it exists,” he repeated. “Then it can be broken?”

“Any bond can be broken, young warlock,” the dragon said. “If you have the strength to cut it.”

“How?” Merlin asked. “How can I break it? I don’t want to be a Dragonlord!”

Kilgharrah yawned, settling back down. “You cannot find the strength to do so without Arthur Pendragon by your side.”

* * *

No sooner had Arthur decided that Merlin was ready to try a real mission, then the king ordered them to do reconnaissance behind the Mercian border. Merlin watched, tight-lipped, as the grounds crew hastened to prepare Kilgharrah for battle, loading the platform with heavy rifles and a trunk of explosives.

The journey into Mercia went exactly as planned. Lance, the aerial photographer assigned to accompany them, snapped several pictures of a series of buildings going up behind the border.

“A weapons depot,” Arthur said, peering at it critically. “We’ll have to return with a missile barrage. Turn back, Merlin.”

Relieved that they had no missiles today, Merlin ordered Kilgharrah to return to Camelot. But they’d only flown a few minutes away from the buildings before Gwen frowned, looking into her binoculars.

“Hostiles approaching!” she yelled

Merlin’s heart hammered in his chest as Gwaine swiveled the heavy rifle to meet the small dragon patrol winging towards them, spraying a rain of bullets into the air. The Mercian dragons were all smaller than Kilgharrah, the largest among them barely the size of a minivan. They scattered under the rain of bullets. Most of them seemed to dodge successfully, but one took a direct hit to the wing and plummeted to the earth in a rotating spiral. As Merlin watched it fall, he caught sight of a group of soldiers on the ground, leveling an immense weapon up at them.

“Arthur!” he warned, pointing.

“Shit,” Arthur swore, peering through Gwen’s binoculars. “They’ve got an anti-aircraft gun. We need to take it out before they fire. Merlin, order the attack.”

Merlin froze, staring down at the men working on the ground with his magically-enhanced vision. He could imagine them gathered around the table of any pub in Camelot, laughing over a pint. Most of them looked younger than he was, boys in their late teens and early twenties.

Everyone had turned to stare at him.

“Merlin,” Arthur repeated. His voice almost sounded gentle. “If you don’t, they’re going to kill us.”

Dizzily, Merlin closed his eyes, feeling like he was going to be sick. Arthur’s hand landed on his shoulder, gripping it tightly. Merlin swallowed, blinking tears from his eyes.

“ _Awreca,_ ” he breathed.

The word had hardly left his mouth before Kilgharrah was folding his wings, diving directly towards the soldiers on the ground. Flames erupted from his mouth, and the guards scattered, launching themselves into the surrounding brush. Merlin watched a boy who couldn’t be much older than eighteen collapse to the ground, screaming, cradling the smoking, blackened stump of an arm to his chest. His companions dragged him to the cover of the rocks, still screaming. Bile rose in Merlin’s throat, and he choked it back. Tears burned his cheeks.

To his surprise, Arthur reached out, almost absently, and rubbed small circles between Merlin’s shoulder blades, even as he peered intently at the action below. The pressure of his hand was comforting through the thick leather of Merlin’s jacket.

Kilgharrah breathed another gust of fire, winging up immediately in its wake. A deafening explosion sounded behind them as the anti-aircraft gun went up in flames. The heat of it reached them even through the plexiglass, and Kilgharrah roared in pain.

“Are you all right, Kilgharrah?” Merlin shouted.

“I am fine,” Kilgharrah assured him, panting heavily. “It was a minor burn. Nothing more.”

Merlin relaxed slightly, still trembling. He glanced across at Arthur, wondering what they should do next. To his surprise, though, Arthur was looking at him, his brows drawn in concern. Merlin swallowed, realizing how he must look, shaking like an aspen, his eyes swollen from crying. He lifted his chin defiantly, refusing to let Arthur judge him. It was monstrous, what they’d just done. What they’d had to do. He refused to pretend otherwise.

But Arthur only leaned forward, gripping his shoulder more tightly. Merlin realized, dully, that Arthur hadn’t released him. Merlin wanted, absurdly, to bury his face in Arthur’s chest, to cling to him like a child and pray that it had all been a bad dream.

“Don’t tell me it’s all right,” he said thickly. “It’s not.”

Arthur sighed. “War is never all right, Merlin,” he said wearily. “It’s horrible. But sometimes necessary, I’m afraid.”

“I killed them,” Merlin said. “They’re dead because of me.”

To his relief, Arthur didn’t try argue, but only nodded. “Yes,” he said. “But we’re still alive.” He patted Merlin’s shoulder. “I had a hard time as well, with my first kill,” he said. “It will get easier.”

Merlin closed his eyes. He didn’t want it to get easier.

They rode in silence towards Camelot, until Lance gave a cry that chilled them all.

“The harness!”

Sure enough, the heavy, canvas straps that circled Kilgharrah’s waist had been singed in the attack. They were straining apart now, threads visible. Even as they watched, the lowest one snapped. The platform where they sat wrenched sideways with a gut-sickening lurch.

“It won’t hold!” Gwaine cried.

“We’ll have to land!” Merlin said. He drew in a breath to repeat the phrase in Draconic, but the sudden pressure of Arthur’s hand on his wrist stopped him.

“No,” Arthur said. “They’ll still be tracking us. If he flies any lower, we’ll be in their weapons range.”

“But it’s too dangerous to stay here!” Gwen said. As if to underscore her words, another harness strap broke, the ends waving like banners in the air behind them.

Heart hammering in his chest, Merlin looked at Arthur. So did the others. Arthur straightened, nodding grimly.

“Right,” he said. “We’ll have to drop. Maintain radio silence while behind enemy lines. We’ll reconvene at the rendezvous point.”

They nodded, except for Merlin, who frowned, wondering what on earth that meant. He figured it out when Gwen unsnapped her carabiner with a trembling hand. As they all watched, she inched her way to the plexiglass door leading into the platform. As she opened it, the wind tore the doorknob from her hand, and the door slammed against the plexiglass wall with a bang that made them all jump.

She looked over her shoulder, gave them a brave smile, and dropped. Merlin’s heart leaped and he clutched the strap holding him to the harness. When the pale fabric of her parachute bloomed open below, he released a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

Lance followed her over without a moment of hesitation. Gwaine, following, lingered for a moment with his hands on his harness buckle, seeming to wrestle with himself.

“I knew I should have had that drink,” he muttered, shrugging ruefully at Arthur. Then he, too, leaped forward and was gone. Merlin watched anxiously until his parachute also expanded, joining Lance and Gwen on their slow drift towards the field below.

“Now you, Merlin,” Arthur said.

Merlin gaped at him. “I don’t know how to use a parachute!”

“What?” Arthur frowned, reaching for his own pack to demonstrate. “It’s easy!” he said. “You just count to three, pull this cord, and . . . Oh.” His voice had gone flat. Peering over his shoulder, Merlin saw the problem. The heavy canvas parachute bag had been damaged in the attack. The fabric was singed and blackened, the fraying fibers clearly visible.

“You can have mine,” Merlin offered. “I wasn’t too keen to jump anyway.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Arthur said. “We’ll jump together. A double drop is the best way to learn.”

“Neither of you is jumping,” Kilgharrah announced in a firm voice. Doubling his speed, he turned away from Camelot, heading towards the woods north of Mercia.

“Stop that at once!” Arhur snapped. “Merlin, order him to the rendezvous point.”

Merlin swallowed. He looked from Arthur to the back of Kilgharrah’s green head. “What are you doing?” he asked the dragon.

“Repaying a very old favour,” Kilgharrah replied.

“To whom?” Merlin asked, even as the platform wrenched sideways as another strap broke.

Kilgharrah’s laughter filled the air. “Why, to you, young warlock.”

“Merlin!” Arthur shouted. “The platform isn’t going to hold. Order him to the rendezvous point, and come on!”

Undecided, Merlin looked down at the straps harnessing him to his seat. He felt sick. Weak. Exhausted. The last thing he wanted to do was make another decision.

Arthur shook him, roughly. “Don’t listen to him!” he warned. “Dragons lie! They always lie! We have to get to the rendezvous point! We need to meet up with the others!” His voice was confident, and Merlin found himself wanting to listen to it. He unsnapped his harness and stood, gripping the back of the seat for balance as the platform lurched again.

“Merlin,” Kilgharrah said. “You asked me once about bonds, and the breaking of them. Only by going where I now fly can such a thing be accomplished.”

“What is he talking about?” Arthur snapped. But he didn’t wait for an answer, catching Merlin’s shoulders between his hands and turning him around. “Is your parachute fastened? Good. Now hold on tight to me.” He wrapped his arms around Merlin and stepped towards the door, bringing Merlin with him. Merlin pressed his face to Arthur’s shoulder, trying to think.

“Are you ready?” Arthur asked, his arms tightening around Merlin’s waist. “Now whatever you do, don’t let go. We’re jumping on the count of three. One. Two.”

The final rope strap snapped, sending the platform careening off Kilgharrah’s back, the two of them inside it. They hit the edge of the doorjamb and fell, not outside, but in, rolling against one of the walls.

“Shit!” Arthur screamed. “We need to get to the door! Work with me, Merlin! A step --”

“We won’t make it,” Merlin said dully.

“Don’t talk like that! Of course we will. This isn’t over, Merlin!”

“No,” Merlin said. “It’s not.” Throwing his head back, he shouted, “Kilgharrah!”

But the green dragon was already winging towards them, his green scales flashing below. “Now, Merlin!” Kilgharrah cried.

Merlin reached for his power, letting it flow from his hand to the riding platform around them. The plexiglass walls shimmered, then disappeared. They landed hard on Kilgharrah’s back. Merlin caught hold of one of the spikes rising from Kilgharrah’s spine and, glancing back over his shoulder, saw that Arthur had done the same. Kilgharrah’s laughter rumbled like thunder as he pushed forward, towards the forest.

* * *

“You did magic,” Arthur said that evening, after they’d stumbled stiffly from the dragon’s back and collapsed onto the blessedly-stable ground.

“I’m a warlock,” Merlin reminded him, glancing at a nearby berry bush and wishing that he knew whether they were edible. He was starving.

“But you’re bound!” Arthur protested. “The curse in your tattoo, it should keep your magic busy fighting it.”

“I have a lot of magic,” Merlin said dully, and, to prove it, conjured up a crackling fire in the middle of the clearing where they sat.

Beside them, Kilgharrah’s broad sides shook with laughter. “That,” he said, “is an understatement.”

* * *

“I’ve decided not to report you to my father,” Arthur announced as the sky began to darken, with a smug note in his voice that said he knew that he was doing Merlin a favour, and was pleased with himself for it. Kilgharrah’s snores rumbled quietly beneath his words like an ocean current. Exhausted from the long flight, Kilgharrah had fallen asleep shortly after they landed.

Merlin rolled his eyes. “That would be great,” he said, “if your father didn’t already have me in his service.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Arthur said. “If my father finds out you can work your way around the binding spell, he’ll kill you. At least this way you’re alive.”

“But what kind of a life is it!” Merlin cried. “You have no idea what it’s like! How could you even imagine what it feels like to be hated for something you can’t control?”

Arthur looked at him steadily, a thoughtful expression on his face that Merlin couldn’t quite decipher. “I can actually,” Arthur said, at last.

Merlin snorted. “Whatever.”

“It’s true,” Arthur said.

“Stop deluding yourself,” Merlin started, but he couldn’t finish his sentence. Arthur’s hands were on his shoulders, and Arthur’s lips against his.

Merlin froze at the unexpected kiss. Arthur’s lips brushed dryly over his, almost chastely. After a brief moment, he began to pull away, his hands slackening on Merlin’s shoulders. Before he knew what he was doing, Merlin surged forward, catching Arthur by his jacket collar, and pulling him back in. Arthur gasped in surprise as Merlin caught his bottom lip in both of his, and then his arms were enfolding Merlin, holding him tight. They clung to each other, hands knotted in each other’s clothes, lips and tongues seeking and finding each other in the narrow space between them.

When the kiss finally dissolved, they reluctantly stepped away from each other. Merlin touched a hand to his swollen mouth, dazed.

Arthur cleared his throat. His expression looked like it was trying very hard to be smug, but the heat in his eyes spoiled the effect.

“There,” he said. “I’m gay.” He shot Merlin a rueful expression. “You can only imagine how the press would react to learn that the heir to the throne fancies blokes. I have something on you. You have something on me. So don’t think I’m going to betray your secret.”

Merlin shook his head, smiling despite himself. “You do realize,” he said, “that your father can’t actually put you to death for being gay? It’s not the same as being a warlock.”

Arthur lifted an eyebrow. “Have you met my father?”

Merlin laughed. “Fair point.”

Arthur shrugged, eyeing Merlin speculatively. Merlin blushed, remembering the feeling of Arthur’s lips on his. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he glanced sideways at Arthur, taking in his bright hair and sea-blue eyes as though for the first time.

Arthur swallowed. “You . . . your file said you live with a woman.”

“Freya,” Merlin said. “We got married. When we were seven. She wore my mum’s lace tablecloth on her head. My stuffed Dalmation gave her away. It was a lovely ceremony.”

“I’m sure,” Arthur said stiffly.

“She’s my best mate,” Merlin said. “And she’s engaged. To our friend, Gilli.”

A smile flickered across Arthur’s face, though he tried to hide it. “And you?”

Merlin shrugged. “As strange as it sounds, some people don’t think an underemployed, gay warlock is all that great of a catch.” He’d meant the words to sound joking, but a note of bitterness crept into his voice, and they fell flat.

They stood quietly for a moment, staring at the fire.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur said. Merlin didn’t speak. “For what it’s worth,” Arthur added, “I don’t think all magic users should be bound. Only criminals.”

Merlin snorted. “Tell that to your father.”

Arthur looked at him squarely. “I have.”

Merlin swallowed, glancing away. After a long moment, hoping to dispel some of the tension, he asked,

“What about you? Are there secret romances that the tabloids haven’t got wind of yet?”

“Only one,” Arthur said, and reached for him.

* * *

Merlin woke to a lark’s insistent chatter, his trousers cold and damp from dew, his neck stiff, from sleeping on the ground. He groaned, curling closer to Kilgharrah’s long neck for warmth. The dragon smelled of damp caves and old parchment, of ozone, and leather and smoke. But Merlin’s side was cold where Arthur no longer curled around him. Merlin flushed with pleasure, remembering the previous night. They’d been too exhausted to do anything but kiss, but it had felt like they’d done that for hours. They’d finally fallen asleep wrapped in each other’s arms, Merlin’s head pillowed on Arthur’s chest, and Arthur’s lips brushing his hair. He smiled to remember it, sleepily reaching out in search of Arthur. But the grass beside him was empty.

Merlin frowned and sat up. Grey dawn lit the eastern sky, illuminating the trees around him. Old growth, he thought, rocking back on his heels to study the hoary oak ahead of him, older than anything he thought remained in Britain.

“Good morning, young warlock,” Kilgharrah yawned, barely slitting open his eyes.

“Where are we?” Merlin asked.

“We are at the place where it all began.”

Merlin rolled his eyes, but didn’t bother to press for a better answer. Looking around, he realized that Arthur was nowhere to be seen. He the trees for movement, searching for a flash of red between the trees.

“Where’s Arthur?” he asked, trying to suppress his sudden, irrational sense of foreboding. This forest didn’t sit right with him. It was too old.

“He has found what he needed to find,” Kilgharrah said. “And so, soon, shall you.”

Merlin stood, frowning.

“Arthur?” His voice echoed into the trees. “Arthur!”

He stepped away from the dragon, pulled by an odd sense of urgency in his gut.

“Merlin,” the dragon said, and Merlin turned back. Kilgharrah’s expression was strangely weary, his gold eyes impossibly old. “I trust that you will do the right thing.”

* * *

Merlin finally found Arthur leaning back against an enormous bolder, balancing a sword in his hands. He tensed as Merlin stepped closer, twigs and fallen leaves crunching beneath his boots, but Arthur didn’t look up, and Merlin found himself loath to speak. He lowered himself to sit beside Arthur.

Gingerly, he reached to trace the runes etched into the steel, studying them as though they were the most fascinating thing on the planet. He didn’t know the language they were written in, but he could read it, the same way he’d instinctively known how to stop the dragons at the protest.

 _Cast me away._

As he touched the runes, Merlin felt the old memories resurface. They crowded to the surface of his mind like a sea of hungry fish, nibbling and tugging at his attention, until he half feared he’d be swept under by the collective weight of them. He couldn’t bring himself to meet Arthur’s eyes, the knowledge and betrayal that he knew would be there. Merlin had kept so many secrets in the past, and some of them he’d left for Arthur to sort out on his own.

Regret weighed heavily in Merlin as he lifted his hand from the sword, letting it fall to the grass between them.

A raindrop crashed, darkening the stone’s surface. Merlin looked up, watching the clouds gather overhead. He felt the storm pressure in his bones and felt, for the first time, truly ancient. The future loomed before him, ominous and dark. Merlin felt sure, suddenly, that he’d been here before, that he’d find himself here a hundred times more before eternity crumpled into dust around him and he’d finally be able to rest.

“You brought back the dragons,” Arthur said at last, his voice sounding as raw as Merlin felt.

Closing his eyes, Merlin remembered the storm where he’d created the dragons. Each bolt of lightning split the air, magic showering gold sparks as the dragonets tumbled free, shaking out their wings and tossing them wide to catch the storm currents, their scales flashing green, gold, orange and violent against the grey clouds. They scattered in an iridescent tumble from the center of the maelstrom, where Merlin knelt serenely, Excalibur clasped between his hands, blade pointed upwards, directing the union of fire and air. He’d made the dragons of ether and sky, of lightning crash, and afterwards, he’d given himself to the stone and fed his power into the earth, to be reborn as a new generation of Dragonlords. He remembered Arthur stepping into this glade, crying out in anguish as Merlin let the rock take him.

Beside him, Arthur shifted so his knee brushed Merlin’s. “I fought a hundred battles with this sword,” he said, turning Excalibur so the blade caught the light.

“You won’t be fighting one today,” Merlin said. Standing, he reached out, extending his hand, palm out, to Arthur.

Arthur looked up and met his eyes. For a moment, they could taste each other’s uncertainty, feel the sharp edges of distrust that had grown between them out of too many years of secrecy, confidences left unshared, out of fear, out of guilt, out of uncertainty. Out of love.

Without a word, Arthur took Merlin’s hand and pulled himself up. The sword gleamed in his hand like a lightning rod. Even without touching it, Merlin could feel the dragon magic crackling in the blade, strong and fierce.

He bit his lip.

They walked back to the clearing hand in hand.

When they reached it, Kilgharrah lifted his head, glancing from Merlin, to Arthur, to the sword. His nostrils flared, and he leaned forward, pinning Merlin in his great, golden stare.

“Are you ready?” Kilgharrah asked him.

Merlin nodded, releasing Arthur’s hand. There was a bond, Kilgharrah had said. A bond connecting all dragons and Dragonlords. Circling the glade, he moved to stand across from Kilgharrah, lifting his hand to the dragon.

Kilgharrah nodded.

Feeding his magic into the bond, Merlin watched it grow thick and tangible, pulsing golden in the space between them, between all dragons and Dragonlords. As his magic stretched towards Kilgharrah, the dragon’s magic stretched towards him. It’s gold was darker than Merlin’s, as though the color had deepened through great age. Side by side, human and dragon magic stretched the width of the clearing, twining together into a binding chain.

Merlin lifted his head to Arthur. “Do it,” he said.

Arthur stared at Merlin, then at the pulsing chain of magic. Finally, his gaze landed on Excalibur, and understanding dawned in his eyes. “I’m not sure,” he said quietly, testing the blade’s grip in his hand.

“Do you trust me?” Merlin asked, holding his gaze.

Arthur glanced away, visibly torn. His breath was deep, each rise and fall of it clearly visible. As Merlin watched, he squared his shoulders, straightened his spine. Arthur strode forward in three great steps and lifted Excalibur above his head, and brought it down with all his strength, cleaving the golden chain.

Merlin screamed. Perhaps Kilgharrah did, too. He couldn’t tell. Blood roared so loudly in his ears that it deafened him to every other sound. He curled into a fetal position, shaking, thunderbolts of agony crashing through him as his magic bled from the severed bond. After a long time, the pain began to dull. He realized that Arthur was curled behind him, holding him close and stroking his hair.

“It’s okay,” Arthur was saying, though he sounded terrified. “It will be okay, Merlin.”

Where he touched, it hurt a little less, so Merlin curled closer, tucking his head beneath Arthur’s chin. Arthur kissed his forehead, stroking his limbs. Merlin let his eyes fall shut, drifting like a kite amidst clouds of pain.

The next time he opened his eyes, he felt almost normal. Almost. Merlin reached inside him, searching for his magic. It was there, still reachable, despite the binding tattoo. He almost thought he could use it. Almost. But the deeper magic that had always existed, that sense of connection to the earth, was gone.

“You’re not a Dragonlord anymore, are you?” Arthur asked, watching him carefully.

Merlin shook his head, looking at Kilgharrah. The dragon was shaking himself, his eyes wide with shock.

“There are no Dragonlords anymore,” Kilgharrah said.

Arthur stared at Merlin. “You . . .”

Merlin hugged himself. “I created them,” he said, voice breaking. “Long ago. They were dead, Arthur, and I brought them back, and the Dragonlords with them.” His voice firmed. “But not for this. Not so kings like Uther could force them to fight in human wars.”

Arthur shook his head, looking stunned. “What happens now?” he asked.

“Our kinds must learn to live together,” Kilgharrah said. “In peace.” He bowed low to Merlin. “I owe another debt to you, old friend. We shall meet again.” A shower of oak leaves trailed behind him as he propelled himself up and out of the forest foliage. Merlin watched until he was a speck on the horizon, then turned to Arthur.

“What will you tell your father?” he asked.

Arthur groaned. “I’ll have to think of something, won’t I? What will you tell yours?”

Merlin sighed, thinking of Balinor, of all the years he’d sacrificed. “I’m sorry,” he said.

The End


End file.
